Alan Skeoch

Author: terraviva

  • Fwd: SUMMER 1965: LAST JOB IN THE WILDERNESS


    NOTE:  Please forgive my intrusion…This is (nearly) the last of my Ten  Years  in the Wilderness theme….I know they seem self centred…maybe even

    self obsessed.   I have wanted to record these experiences  for more than 50 years because my job back then got me into some strange places with strange people and

    presented lots of excitement.  You do not need to read if you find the subject intrusive or you think I am a fool.  Yes, there are typos…my computer keeps  changing words
    for some reason…I think there is  a little person sitting inside the computer deliberately trying to infuriate me…I will give him a quarter stick  of forcite sometime in the
    future.  Forcite?  What is Forcite?  Read  on.

    alan


    1965:  My Last Summer in the Wilderness:   Merritt Open Pit Mine, Merritt, BC

    alan skeoch
    Feb. 2019


    As the Summer of 1964 ended,  I thought my careers as a Field  Man in the Miing Industry
    also  ended.  Was I waving a fond good-bye.  Not a chance.  Along came the Summer of 1965.
    Marjorie was misinterpreted as you will notice.


    “Hello, Alan, is that you?”
    “Yep.”
    “Norm Paterson here…need a man for a seismic job in BC…two weeks, maybe three.”
    “Wait until I check with Marjorie.”
    “Short job, Alan.”
    “All clear, what’s up”
    “Big molybdenum mine near Merritt B.C…worried about overburden slippage…need seismic
    info urgently.”
    “Using the  portable FS2 unit.”
    “Yes, with some modifications…”
    “Modificatons?”
    “Nothing big time…you can handle it I’M sure.   Can you take the job?”
    “When?”
    “Fly out to Vancouver tomorrow then short hop to BC interior.”
    “Sounds great, count me int.”

    That call came from out of the blue about August 10, 1965.  This  was our summer vacation as public 
    school teachers.  Hardly a  vacation for us since somehow I got Trench  Mouth in early July.  Trench Mouth?
    Not many people have even heard  of trench mouth.  Lucky for that.  It is a super painful mouth infection 
    Mouth…a series of ulcers in mouth and throat…super painful.  Cause?  Gums got infected with Trench ]
    Mouth bacteria from some source.  Rare disease  dates back to soldiers in the  trenches of World  War I.
    Knocked me out for month of July so the Seismic call from Dr. Paterson was a welcome return to normal life.

    But I had a few questions…reservations.  What is molybdenum?   What are these ‘modifications’ to the 
    FS 2 portable seismic unit?   Where is Merritt?  How big is the open pit mine?  And finally a questions
    best not put to Dr. Paterson”  “Can Marjorie come along on the job?”  Of course, the final question was
    the really big question.  And  it was already answered.

    “Marjorie, pack a  couple of bags for two weeks…light, one bag each.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Wish  I knew…place called  Merritt.”
    “Another bush job?”
    “Nope, sounds like a  job at a mine site.”
    “Where will we live?”
    “Not sure…I will fly in first and then you follow a couple of days  later.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the mine manager expects an expert…this  job is serious business…if the open pit is on verge of collapse…
    they do not expect a husband and wife team on some kind of junket.”
    “Where am I to stay then?”
    “Stay in Vancouver for a day or two in some cheap hotel and then take a bus to Merritt…by then the job should be well
    underway.”
    “How do I get there?”
    “By bus…should be  a nice ride.”
    “I’ll book you into a an East  Vancouver hotel,…”

    MOLEBDENUM

    “What is molydenom?”
    “It’s a mineral often found assoiated with copper.”
    Never heard  of it.”
    “Not many people  have…important mineral though…alloyed with steel makes steel harder.”
    “Who needs harder steel?”
    “Military.  One inch thick steel plating of steel and molybdenum is as good as 3 inch think ,metal.   Make
    tanks ligher…makes ships lighter…”




    THE NATURE OF THE JOB:  COMINCO OPEN PIT MINE PROBLEM

    One wall on The Cominco Open Pit Mine was unstable and seemed about to collapse which would table  hundreds of tons
    of soil and rock into the open pit mine.  Like a  mountain landslide.   Geologists and mining engineers became aware of the danger when slight rock falls began
    to happen.   Could the whole massive open  pit mine be  compromised?   Maybe.  Maybe not.  There was  a chance that deep
    underground the rock was  quite stable.  Maybe there might even be some kind of intrusion underground that would inhibit any
    further  movement.   

    It was worth finding out.  If stable then the profits would  be secure.  If not then drastic action would have to be taken.  Action that
    might even bring about the closure of this partciular open pit operation.

    “You can do it, Alan,” said Dr. Paterson which was comforting.  I was not so sure as I had graduated from U. of T in history and  philosophy.
    Philosophy gives a person confidence.  History made me aware of  my ignorance.  One cancelled out the other.

    No matter, we were committed and picked up the portable ‘modified’ seismograph.  Marjorie and I flew to Vancouver the next day.  She was  booked into a modest hotel in Vancouver while
    I caught a plane to Kamloops and rented a snazzy red convertible for the trip down to Merritt.  Then Rented a room in the local motel which was very close to the mine itself.
    On arrival I  met a company geologist and the mine manager
    and we sleuthed out the site.  Explosives and blasting caps were purchased and  we got down to business.  Plan was to start the job the following morning.
    That sounds  very business like.  Very efficient.  

    Unfortunately events did not go that smoothly.  Let’s start with the car rental.  Nice red American  made convertible.  Luxury car was only car available so I motored joyfully
    south through the desert landscape of sagebrush and Ponderosa pines.   Pulled the car up near the mine admin building…sort of a wooden temporary structure.  Lots
    of huge earth movers were busy stripping off the overburden then loading up with the blasted fragments of copper bearing ore…very low grade…with molybdenum  and tiny traces  of
    silver and gold.  Needed huge load of ore to get small amounts  of copper or molybdenum.  Gold  and silver even less so.

    Earth movers have a blade about midway down the body. The blade is a mouth…once dropped it scoops up loose soil and rock…then the mouth is lifted and
    the pile of soil and rock is hauled to a dump site.   These machines  are often driven by devil may care cowboy kinds of people. Shake the shit out of  drivers.  Certainly true in this case.  As  soon
    as I parked the car a cowboy tried to see how close he could come to the car.  He got very close…too close.  Sheared off the passenger side and back bumper.  Had to 
    rent another car, less luxurious.  Funny thing was  that neither the mining people nor the rental agency got their underwear in a twist.

    Later I heard  that heavy alcohol consumption in the area led  to many car  accidents.  




    Imagine this rental car with the side sheared away.








    An earth mover, called a tractor scraper,  identical to this one took a  swipe at my rental car…ripped the passenger side and tore off the back bumper.
    Driven by a young man about my age or younger…maybe even only18 or so.  I have no idea why he did it.  Never met him
    and he did not stop just kept hauling his load to the dumpsite.


    The Cominco (later Highland Creek) Open Pit copper and molybdenum mine in 1965




    Current picture, circa 2018, of the Highland  Creek open pit mine near Merritt, BC.   When I worked there back in 1965, the pit
    was not nearly tis deep.   The place where we did the survey may have been somewhere near the central road way
    but up on the former surface.  Then again it could have been a nearby open pit that was subsequently abandoned.



    SO YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THE FS2 PORTABLE SEISMOGRAPH?

    I learned the business from the bottom up.  My first job in New Brunswick was the ‘hammer man’ job.  Dr. Paterson gave me
    a heavy sledge hammer and  small steel plate.   

    “Hit that plate as  hard  as you  can wherever and  whenever you are told to do  so.”
    “Must I know how to run a seismograph?”
    “You do not need  to know a damn thing…just follow orders.”
    “Bottom of the learning ladder kind  of job, right Dr. Paterson?”
    “Right…if you are lucky, you come back as a field man for the company…capable
    of running a seismic survey.  If you foul up, well, you can figure what that means…”
    “Who is  my boss?”
    “Dr. Abul Mousuf, a professional geophysicist…nice guy.”

    Description:  Sledge hammer pounded  on a steel  plate sent sound waves to 
    the portable seismograph at clearly defined spatial intervals.  Some distance
    from the Seismograph it was necessary use explosives.   Sound waves  travel at
    different speeds in different material…i..e. air, overburden soil, bed rock.





    So My first job we used an MD-1 portable seismograph.  All I  had to do was  hammer a steel plate with heavy steel headed sledge hammer.  Abul Mousuf  was  my boss on that job.
    Just the two of us were sent to New Brunswick  to confirm the future lakebed of the St. John River Valley was  going to hold the huge amount
    of water from the Macktaquack (sp?) dam.  




     Abul was the first moslem I ever met.  Very patient
    and generous  guy.  He ran the portable seismograph while I provided the sound wave vibrations which were picked up by the machine in milliseconds..tiny
    fractions of a  second.  I pounded the steel plate at measured intervals…usually around 50 foot intervals.   The more  distant I got from Abul the
    harder I had to hammer that steel plate.  When hammering was no longer readable, we started to use force… explosives…Explosives!

    “Alan, cut the Forcite sticks into quarters and  halves.”
    “How?”
    “Slowly with a knife…the sticks are quite stable…
    “Stable?”
    “plastic C4…needs big shock to detonate…That’s where  the caps come in.”
    “Caps?”
    “These little metal tubes with wires…electric  firing caps.”
    “How are they charged?”
    “Slide the metal tube slowly into the Forcite…quite safe.”
    “And the wires?”
    “Attach to this cable that goes back to the firing switch…
    “Any danger of error?”
    “Always  a  danger if more than two people get involved…safe is we work together.
    You set  the charge…bury it so some of the force will go down… then get back  out of the way…Signal me…wave your arm…yell, ‘All clear’
    and I’ll detonate the charge.  usually only need quarter sticks.

    We worked out a routine…once the charge was buried and wires connected I signalled Abul, then moved out
    of the way, and he pushed  the firing button.  Wham!  A small geyser of dirt snd  debris flew into the air.  And beneath the ground a  sound wave raced
    to the seismograph.  Sound  waves move faster in  hard surfaces so it is possible to ‘read’ what is  beneath the ground…and do  a profile of the depth to bedrock.
    That is  a very simple explanation.  Forgive any errors.  Remember I was just the hammer and explosives  guy.  The kid on the
    job.

    We hired  this man to help with the explosives.  I have forgotten his  name.  If someone
    saw him walking through town today with this handful of Forcite sticks made ready
    to detonate they would call in a Swat team or run for their life.  In the early 1960’s not
    many people  were concerned unless we were crossing their land.

    This is how the St. John River Valley above Fredericton appeared to me in that summer of 1961.  Like  a picture postcard.
    Stunning in its beauty.  We were agents of change.  


    The whole valley from Fredericton to Grand Falls was destined to become a huge lake held in place by the Mactsquak Dam.






    King’s Landing.   Many of the historic buildings in the Valley were  moved to King;s Landing which remains a mecca  for tourists.







    That job was done a few years earlier around 1961.   Actually the job was depressing because the St. John River Valley was absolutely 
    beautiful.   To imagine it being flooded made me sad.  But progress is  progress.   Loyalist  farms had been expropriated. Their antique 
    treasures were so vast that a huge historic village called King’s Landing was being constructed while we were assessing the future lake bottom.   Some of these farms were 
    still in operation others had  been demolished.  One farm I remember particularly.  We had rented cabins at a doomed resort near Pokiok Falls, also doomed.  The weather 
    was turning cool, early September, and each of us had a small wood burning stove beside our beds.  In my mindI can  still smell  that wood fire.
    The barns on that farm were filled  with ancient farm machines like  a wooden tread mill for a horse to deliver power to a florally decorated  flat to the floor threshing machine.
    At the time I  wished I could rescue some of these implements.  I hoped they would end  up at King’s Landing for future tourists.

    Pokiok Falls was also doomed.  The water spilled down a long split in the bedrock which made the waterfalls  almost inaccessible.   Now it is all covered in water and
    the village of Pokiok Falls is a memory at best but more likely totally forgotten.

    I got to know Abul really well.  We liked each other.  Part way through the job his wife joined us.  She was  a French Canadian girl from Bathurst, 
    New Brunswick.  Really nice person   At one point Abul said, “Why don’t you two go down to the Fredericton Fair tonight while I do
    the calculations.  We did that.  Even rode a Ferris Wheel as I remember.”  On another night we visited the Beaverbrook Art Gallery.
      Why tell you this?  Because Islamophobia has become such
    a big negative factor in Canada today.   Images of Moslem restrictions on women are rampant.  That was certainly not the case with
    Abul.  He trusted me with his  wife.  She was about my age. Back in Toronto, in late fall, Abul and his wife joined our Presbyterian Young Peoples Group and explained some
    of his Islamic  beliefs.  This was not done with the intention of conversion.
    He  was  about as laid back  a man as  possible.

    Why tell you all this.?  Because Abul taught me how to use the portable seismograph.  And my image of Moslems was permanently affected by
    his gentle behaviour, his humour, his trusting nature, and his love of life.  The next summer I asked Dr. Paterson…

    “How is  Abul?”
    “He died.”
    “Died,  no he  was young.”
    “He caught pneumonia on a job in Northenr Quebec las winter….died.”
    “What a nice man he was.”
    “Yes,  we all  miss  him.  I spoke to him just before he died and he
    said…’Don’t feel  badly, it my time to go.  I am at ease.’

    There were several end results of working with Abul .   First, I met a man I have admired all my life.  Second, I came to understand Islam in a manner that was  positive rather than fear laden.  And third, I
    learned how to operate a portable seismograph which increased my value to Hunting Technical and Exploration Services.   Oh, yes, there was a fourth result…I got a couple of glycerine headaches from
    handling the Forcite sticks.  They beaded droplets of glycerine.


    So, when Norm…sorry, I meant to say Dr. Paterson…phoned me in late July 1965, I was  overjoyed to have the job.

    The greeting by the professional staff at the mine site was a little disconcerting though.  They had  set up a demonstration test just to be sure the company, my company, knew what we we’re doing.
    At least that’s the way I interpreted them gathering around the FS2 on the first working day.   They assigned a hammer man to work with me, a man who was a little familiar with frociete explosives.
    Really just a kid a few years younger than me.  We walked along the edge of the huge open pit mine.  Walked carefully.  But not carefully enough for the hammer/explosives man.  He slipped over
    the edge carrying the box fo Forcite sticks.  Fell down about ten feet or so, regained his footing and popped up again.  Forcite does not explode when dropped.  A most stable explosive…can be needed
    and wrapped  around a bank vault as they show in the movies.  So there was no real danger although the boy who fell had misgivings. 

    Let me set the stags for the next critical incident:

    We are standing on the questionable edge of the open pit Molybdenum mine.  Great circular road  weaves its way down to the pay dirt at the bottom.  Huge Euclid mine trucks are going and coming
    while equally large excavators are at work far below.   The officials from the mine are interested in seeing the Seismograh at work.  They are professional people…a geologist and the mine manager
    are among the 5 or 6 people present.  

    I set up the console and mark off the intervals for a) the hammered plate and then, once hammering cannot be done b) the intervals for the electrically fired quarter snd half stick of Forcite.  The hammer man
    has been instructed how to slowly side the electric firing caps into the Frociete then use the lead wires to make the explosive secure.

    I am nervous.   What if nothing happens?  What did Dr. Paterson mean when he said certain adjustments had been made to the FS2.  Let me describe what happened next in dialogue form.

    “OK, we’re all set up,  FS is on.”
    “Hammer the steel plate…NOW.”
    “That’s odd, no reading…no milliseconds indicted…Do it again!”
    (Nothing happened…I had my heart in my mouth…was there something I did not know…was it my fault?
    Keep calm, Alan…be confident.”
    “Sorry, must be a defective board…may have shaken something loose en route.”
     Dr. Paterson had given me two or three spare “boards” filled with complicated soldered resistors and what not.)
    “Just do a replacement…slide this board out and put a new one in…happens all the time.”
    “OK, now take a good song with the hammer:
    “Bingo…working fine…measures time vibration gets to the seismograph in milliseconds…
    te more distant the hammer or the explosives get from the seismograph the closer we get to finding 
    what is underground.  What you want is a stable rock base…or a rock knob to prevent any more slippage.
    That will take s lot of readings…(no need for an audience is what I really meant)”
    “My credibility had been established…by pure luck…well, more than luck, let’s say guts…Dad always
    called me a ‘gutsy bugger’

    GUESS WHO ARRIVED THAT FIRST DAY ON THE JOB?

    Once the board was replaced all went well.   Firing box for  Explosives worked perfectly. All I had to do was push the button and  then
    write down the milliseconds it took  for the sound wave to reach the seismograph.  Simply add  up the little twinkling lights.  At least that
    is what I remember.  Things became routine.

    My next shock was when I returned to the motel.
    Marjorie was unpacking her suitcase in our room.  




    “Marjorie, I thought you were going to wait a couple of days?”
    “Not in that Vancouver hotel.  I  was sacred so I caught the night 
    bus to Merritt…arrived this morning.”
    “Scared?”
    “Strange men…noise…drunks…did not want to stay around.”
    “Glad to see you…perfectly safe here…”

    A little later, the mine geologist showed up to make me feel welcome.  Me?
    He was surprised to find an  attractive young woman in my room with me.
    Wore a kind of lopsided grin when I introduced Marjorie to him.

    The next day I got the scuttlebutt from our hammer man that the execs thought I had
    brought a hooker in from Vancouver.  They were certain of that.  No matter how many
    times  I introduced  Marjorie as my wife, they figured I was leading them on.

    “Marjorie, these guys think you are a hooker…can’t dissuade them…”
    “So, let’s leave it at that then Alan.”

    Pictures: Marjorie…I know these were taken a few years after the BC venture…but they seem to fit.

    As the days wore on, I think they came to realize Marjorie was my wife but we were 
    never sure that fact was believed.  There is  an old story about mining that I picked
    up when working on the Elliot Lake uranium job.  Our liaison man on that job said
    “The best way to tell if a mine is going to be operational is the arrival of the hookers.”
    Maybe Marjorie was a good luck omen.

    WHAT WAS THE RESULT OF THE SURVEY?

    I was only the field man.  The interpretation of my results was done by professional geophysicists like Dr. Paterson back in Toronto. 
    The execs from Cominco would have liked me to tell them if the unstable north wall of the open pit was on the verge of collapse
    or whether it would  stabilize due to a  tilt in the bedrock.  I never did know the results.  That was true of all the jobs except for
    the Southern Irish job where Dr. Stam and geologist John Hogan were on site for the duration of the job.  

    When we finished our seismic readings and the results were sent back to Toronto, the job was over.  

    So here we were in Central British Columbia with s  few days before school started back in Toronto.   What should  we do?
    Fly home right away?   I never liked doing that on any job.   Seemed  an absolute waste because most of the places we surveyed
    were distant from Toronto. Some were fascinating places like Anchorage, Alaska…Keno City, Yukon Territory…Bunmahon, County 
    Waterford, Slouther Ireland.   It would be stupid to rush home.  And it would be costly since two airfares were involved only one of
    which was covered by the company.










    “Marjorie, why don’t we catch the CPR Canadian…the transcontinental railway?”
    “Can we do that?”
    “On our own time…company job is over.”
    “Expensive?”
    “We can cover most of it with my return fare…maybe even cheaper.”
    “How?”
    “Let’s just reserve one sleeper bed…a lower?”
    “Is there room for two?”
    “Who cares?”

    CPR The Canadian sleeping car section

    So we did.  We came back to Toronto on board the ‘Canadian’…meals in the dining car, vistas enjoyed from
    the dome car and both of us folded into the lower bunk sleeper.   A little tight but No problem.  Job over.

    AND  SO  ENDED MY CREER AS A FIELD EXPLORATION MAN IN THE MINING INDUSTRY.
    EACH DAY SEEMED TO HAVE A NEW ADVENTURE.  SO GLAD YOU HAVE TAKEN
    THE TIME TO READ THESE NOTES.

    ALAN SKEOCH
    FEB. 8, 2019

    P.S. There will be some short notes coming…such  as the GOOD FOOD note below


    THE GOOD LIFE : GOURMET COOK 

        (And a game for you to test your vision)


    Envy?  I can understand why many readers are envious when the descriptions of life in the
    wilderness are sent.   I have noted that some recipients only look at the pictures
    and ignore the rich prose that I take a long time to string together.  So here is a very
    short descriptive essay that is really a game.  See if you can find each of the items
    listed below.  The picture underscores just how wonderful life in the bush can be.

    photo  Taken: Yukon job 1962 



    See if you can find the following from list under the photo




    1) Spruce pole bed
    2) Gold Pan
    3) Bird’s Custard can
    4) Bird’s Cutard with stale bread and Klim milk powder
    5) wash basen/ dining bowl  (double duty)
    6) Candles  (indication this camp has been used for week)
    7) Instant coffee cans
    8) long underwear
    9) fancy boots
    10) Mattress
    11) Alarm Clock, wind  up kind
    12) tarpaulin floor
    13) discarded  matches
    14) Two spoons (evidence of communal dining)
    15) Clothing storage area
    16) Mystery: A boot lace? string? heavy duty tooth floss?

        17) One reader noticed the person in the photo is left handed…as I am.

              But I did not own such a fancy pair of long underwear.  We shared
              the meal, however, both left handed cooks.
       18) Another reader commented  on his clean feet and wondered
             whether he had  washed his feet in the wash basin before making
             the skim milk, custard  and stale bread gourmet dinner.  It is  just
            possible he did do that which would add some fine particles to the meal.

    alan skeoch
    Feb. 8,2019
    (picture was taken on the Yukon job in 1961 or 1962)




  • SUMMER 1965: LAST JOB IN THE WILDERNESS


    1965:  My Last Summer in the Wilderness:   Merritt Open Pit Mine, Merritt, BC

    alan skeoch
    Feb. 2019


    As the Summer of 1964 ended,  I thought my career as a Field  Man in the Miining Industry
    also  ended.  Was I waving a fond good-bye?  Not a chance.  Along came the Summer of 1965.
    Marjorie now had a role which  was misinterpreted as you will notice.


    “Hello, Alan, is that you?”
    “Yep.”
    “Norm Paterson here…need a man for a seismic job in BC…two weeks, maybe three.”
    “Wait until I check with Marjorie.”
    “Short job, Alan.”
    “All clear, what’s up”
    “Big molybdenum mine near Merritt B.C…worried about overburden slippage…need seismic
    info urgently.”
    “Using the  portable FS2 unit.”
    “Yes, with some modifications…”
    “Modificatons?”
    “Nothing big time…you can handle it I’M sure.   Can you take the job?”
    “When?”
    “Fly out to Vancouver tomorrow then short hop to BC interior.”
    “Sounds great, count me int.”

    That call came from out of the blue about August 10, 1965.  This  was our summer vacation as public 
    school teachers.  Hardly a  vacation for us since somehow I got Trench  Mouth in early July.  Trench Mouth?
    Not many people have even heard  of trench mouth.  Lucky for that.  It is a super painful mouth infection 
    Mouth…a series of ulcers in mouth and throat…super painful.  Cause?  Gums got infected with Trench ]
    Mouth bacteria from some source.  Rare disease  dates back to soldiers in the  trenches of World  War I.
    Knocked me out for month of July so the Seismic call from Dr. Paterson was a welcome return to normal life.

    But I had a few questions…reservations.  What is molybdenum?   What are these ‘modifications’ to the 
    FS 2 portable seismic unit?   Where is Merritt?  How big is the open pit mine?  And finally a questions
    best not put to Dr. Paterson”  “Can Marjorie come along on the job?”  Of course, the final question was
    the really big question.  And  it was already answered.

    “Marjorie, pack a  couple of bags for two weeks…light, one bag each.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Wish  I knew…place called  Merritt.”
    “Another bush job?”
    “Nope, sounds like a  job at a mine site.”
    “Where will we live?”
    “Not sure…I will fly in first and then you follow a couple of days  later.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the mine manager expects an expert…this  job is serious business…if the open pit is on verge of collapse…
    they do not expect a husband and wife team on some kind of junket.”
    “Where am I to stay then?”
    “Stay in Vancouver for a day or two in some cheap hotel and then take a bus to Merritt…by then the job should be well
    underway.”
    “How do I get there?”
    “By bus…should be  a nice ride.”
    “I’ll book you into a an East  Vancouver hotel,…”

    MOLEBDENUM

    “What is molydenom?”
    “It’s a mineral often found assoiated with copper.”
    Never heard  of it.”
    “Not many people  have…important mineral though…alloyed with steel makes steel harder.”
    “Who needs harder steel?”
    “Military.  One inch thick steel plating of steel and molybdenum is as good as 3 inch think ,metal.   Make
    tanks ligher…makes ships lighter…”




    THE NATURE OF THE JOB:  COMINCO OPEN PIT MINE PROBLEM

    One wall on The Cominco Open Pit Mine was unstable and seemed about to collapse which would tumble  hundreds of tons
    of soil and rock into the open pit mine.  Like a  mountain landslide.   Geologists and mining engineers became aware of the danger when slight rock falls began
    to happen.   Could the whole massive open  pit mine be  compromised?   Maybe.  Maybe not.  There was  a chance that deep
    underground the rock was  quite stable.  Maybe there might even be some kind of intrusion underground that would inhibit any
    further  movement.   

    It was worth finding out.  If stable then the profits would  be secure.  If not then drastic action would have to be taken.  Action that
    might even bring about the closure of this partciular open pit operation.

    “You can do it, Alan,” said Dr. Paterson which was comforting.  I was not so sure as I had graduated from U. of T in history and  philosophy.
    Philosophy gives a person confidence.  History made me aware of  my ignorance.  One cancelled out the other.

    No matter, we were committed and picked up the portable ‘modified’ seismograph.  Marjorie and I flew to Vancouver the next day.  She was  booked into a modest hotel in Vancouver while
    I caught a plane to Kamloops and rented a snazzy red convertible for the trip down to Merritt.  Then Rented a room in the local motel which was very close to the mine itself.
    On arrival I  met a company geologist and the mine manager
    and we sleuthed out the site.  Explosives and blasting caps were purchased and  we got down to business.  Plan was to start the job the following morning.
    That sounds  very business like.  Very efficient.  

    Unfortunately events did not go that smoothly.  Let’s start with the car rental.  Nice red American  made convertible.  Luxury car was only car available so I motored joyfully
    south through the desert landscape of sagebrush and Ponderosa pines.   Pulled the car up near the mine admin building…sort of a wooden temporary structure.  Lots
    of huge earth movers were busy stripping off the overburden then loading up with the blasted fragments of copper bearing ore…very low grade…with molybdenum  and tiny traces  of
    silver and gold.  Needed huge load of ore to get small amounts  of copper or molybdenum.  Gold  and silver even less so.

    Earth movers have a blade about midway down the body. The blade is a mouth…once dropped it scoops up loose soil and rock…then the mouth is lifted and
    the pile of soil and rock is hauled to a dump site.   These machines  are often driven by devil may care cowboy kinds of people. Shake the shit out of  drivers.  Certainly true in this case.  As  soon
    as I parked the car a cowboy tried to see how close he could come to the car.  He got very close…too close.  Sheared off the passenger side and back bumper.  Had to 
    rent another car, less luxurious.  Funny thing was  that neither the mining people nor the rental agency got their underwear in a twist.

    Later I heard  that heavy alcohol consumption in the area led  to many car  accidents.  




    Imagine this rental car with the side sheared away.

    An earth mover, called a tractor scraper,  identical to this one took a  swipe at my rental car…ripped the passenger side and tore off the back bumper.
    Driven by a young man about my age or younger…maybe even only18 or so.  I have no idea why he did it.  Never met him
    and he did not stop just kept hauling his load to the dumpsite.


    The Cominco (later Highland Creek) Open Pit copper and molybdenum mine in 1965




    Current picture, circa 2018, of the Highland  Creek open pit mine near Merritt, BC.   When I worked there back in 1965, the pit
    was not nearly tis deep.   The place where we did the survey may have been somewhere near the central road way
    but up on the former surface.  Then again it could have been a nearby open pit that was subsequently abandoned.



    SO YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THE FS2 PORTABLE SEISMOGRAPH?

    I learned the business from the bottom up.  My first job in New Brunswick was the ‘hammer man’ job.  Dr. Paterson gave me
    a heavy sledge hammer and  small steel plate.   

    “Hit that plate as  hard  as you  can wherever and  whenever you are told to do  so.”
    “Must I know how to run a seismograph?”
    “You do not need  to know a damn thing…just follow orders.”
    “Bottom of the learning ladder kind  of job, right Dr. Paterson?”
    “Right…if you are lucky, you come back as a field man for the company…capable
    of running a seismic survey.  If you foul up, well, you can figure what that means…”
    “Who is  my boss?”
    “Dr. Abul Mousuf, a professional geophysicist…nice guy.”

    Description:  Sledge hammer pounded  on a steel  plate sent sound waves to 
    the portable seismograph at clearly defined spatial intervals.  Some distance
    from the Seismograph it was necessary use explosives.   Sound waves  travel at
    different speeds in different material…i..e. air, overburden soil, bed rock.





    So My first job we used an MD-1 portable seismograph.  All I  had to do was  hammer a steel plate with heavy steel headed sledge hammer.  Abul Mousuf  was  my boss on that job.
    Just the two of us were sent to New Brunswick  to confirm the future lakebed of the St. John River Valley was  going to hold the huge amount
    of water from the Macktaquack (sp?) dam.  




     Abul was the first moslem I ever met.  Very patient
    and generous  guy.  He ran the portable seismograph while I provided the sound wave vibrations which were picked up by the machine in milliseconds..tiny
    fractions of a  second.  I pounded the steel plate at measured intervals…usually around 50 foot intervals.   The more  distant I got from Abul the
    harder I had to hammer that steel plate.  When hammering was no longer readable, we started to use force… explosives…Explosives!

    “Alan, cut the Forcite sticks into quarters and  halves.”
    “How?”
    “Slowly with a knife…the sticks are quite stable…
    “Stable?”
    “plastic C4…needs big shock to detonate…That’s where  the caps come in.”
    “Caps?”
    “These little metal tubes with wires…electric  firing caps.”
    “How are they charged?”
    “Slide the metal tube slowly into the Forcite…quite safe.”
    “And the wires?”
    “Attach to this cable that goes back to the firing switch…
    “Any danger of error?”
    “Always  a  danger if more than two people get involved…safe is we work together.
    You set  the charge…bury it so some of the force will go down… then get back  out of the way…Signal me…wave your arm…yell, ‘All clear’
    and I’ll detonate the charge.  usually only need quarter sticks.

    We worked out a routine…once the charge was buried and wires connected I signalled Abul, then moved out
    of the way, and he pushed  the firing button.  Wham!  A small geyser of dirt snd  debris flew into the air.  And beneath the ground a  sound wave raced
    to the seismograph.  Sound  waves move faster in  hard surfaces so it is possible to ‘read’ what is  beneath the ground…and do  a profile of the depth to bedrock.
    That is  a very simple explanation.  Forgive any errors.  Remember I was just the hammer and explosives  guy.  The kid on the
    job.

    We hired  a man to help with the explosives.  I have forgotten his  name.  If someone
    saw him walking through town today with this handful of Forcite sticks made ready
    to detonate they would call in a Swat team or run for their life.  In the early 1960’s not
    many people  were concerned unless we were crossing their land.

    This is how the St. John River Valley above Fredericton appeared to me in that summer of 1961.  Like  a picture postcard.
    Stunning in its beauty.  We were agents of change.  


    The whole valley from Fredericton to Grand Falls was destined to become a huge lake held in place by the Mactsquak Dam.






    King’s Landing.   Many of the historic buildings in the Valley were  moved to King;s Landing which remains a mecca  for tourists.




    That job was done a few years earlier around 1961.   Actually the job was depressing because the St. John River Valley was absolutely 
    beautiful.   To imagine it being flooded made me sad.  But progress is  progress.   Loyalist  farms had been expropriated. Their antique 
    treasures were so vast that a huge historic village called King’s Landing was being constructed while we were assessing the future lake bottom.   Some of these farms were 
    still in operation others had  been demolished.  One farm I remember particularly.  We had rented cabins at a doomed resort near Pokiok Falls, also doomed.  The weather 
    was turning cool, early September, and each of us had a small wood burning stove beside our beds.  In my mindI can  still smell  that wood fire.
    The barns on that farm were filled  with ancient farm machines like  a wooden tread mill for a horse to deliver power to a florally decorated  flat to the floor threshing machine.
    At the time I  wished I could rescue some of these implements.  I hoped they would end  up at King’s Landing for future tourists.




    Pokiok Falls was also doomed.  The water spilled down a long split in the bedrock which made the waterfalls  almost inaccessible.   Now it is all covered in water and
    the village of Pokiok Falls is a memory at best but more likely totally forgotten.

    I got to know Abul really well.  We liked each other.  Part way through the job his wife joined us.  She was  a French Canadian girl from Bathurst, 
    New Brunswick.  Really nice person   At one point Abul said, “Why don’t you two go down to the Fredericton Fair tonight while I do
    the calculations.  We did that.  Even rode a Ferris Wheel as I remember.”  On another night we visited the Beaverbrook Art Gallery.
      Why tell you this?  Because Islamophobia has become such
    a big negative factor in Canada today.   Images of Moslem restrictions on women are rampant.  That was certainly not the case with
    Abul.  He trusted me with his  wife.  She was about my age. Back in Toronto, in late fall, Abul and his wife joined our Presbyterian Young Peoples Group and explained some
    of his Islamic  beliefs.  This was not done with the intention of conversion.
    He  was  about as laid back  a man as  possible.

    Why tell you all this.?  Because Abul taught me how to use the portable seismograph.  And my image of Moslems was permanently affected by
    his gentle behaviour, his humour, his trusting nature, and his love of life.  The next summer I asked Dr. Paterson…

    “How is  Abul?”
    “He died.”
    “Died,  no he  was young.”
    “He caught pneumonia on a job in Northenr Quebec las winter….died.”
    “What a nice man he was.”
    “Yes,  we all  miss  him.  I spoke to him just before he died and he
    said…’Don’t feel  badly, it my time to go.  I am at ease.’

    There were several end results of working with Abul .   First, I met a man I have admired all my life.  Second, I came to understand Islam in a manner that was  positive rather than fear laden.  And third, I
    learned how to operate a portable seismograph which increased my value to Hunting Technical and Exploration Services.   Oh, yes, there was a fourth result…I got a couple of glycerine headaches from
    handling the Forcite sticks.  They beaded droplets of glycerine.


    So, when Norm…sorry, I meant to say Dr. Paterson…phoned me in late July 1965, I was  overjoyed to have the job.

    The greeting by the professional staff at the mine site was a little disconcerting though.  They had  set up a demonstration test just to be sure the company, my company, knew what we we’re doing.
    At least that’s the way I interpreted them gathering around the FS2 on the first working day.   They assigned a hammer man to work with me, a man who was a little familiar with frociete explosives.
    Really just a kid a few years younger than me.  We walked along the edge of the huge open pit mine.  Walked carefully.  But not carefully enough for the hammer/explosives man.  He slipped over
    the edge carrying the box fo Forcite sticks.  Fell down about ten feet or so, regained his footing and popped up again.  Forcite does not explode when dropped.  A most stable explosive…can be needed
    and wrapped  around a bank vault as they show in the movies.  So there was no real danger although the boy who fell had misgivings. 

    Let me set the stags for the next critical incident:

    We are standing on the edge of the open pit Molybdenum mine.  A Great circular road  weaves its way down to the pay dirt at the bottom.  Huge Euclid mine trucks are going and coming
    while equally large excavators are at work far below.   The officials from the mine are interested in seeing the Seismograh at work.  They are professional people…a geologist and the mine manager
    are among the 5 or 6 people present.  

    I set up the console and mark off the intervals for a) the hammered plate and then, once hammering cannot be done b) the intervals for the electrically fired quarter snd half stick of Forcite.  The hammer man
    has been instructed how to slowly side the electric firing caps into the Frociete then use the lead wires to make the explosive secure.

    I am nervous.   What if nothing happens?  What did Dr. Paterson mean when he said certain adjustments had been made to the FS2.  Let me describe what happened next in dialogue form.

    “OK, we’re all set up,  FS is on.”
    “Hammer the steel plate…NOW.”
    “That’s odd, no reading…no milliseconds indicted…Do it again!”
    (Nothing happened…I had my heart in my mouth…was there something I did not know…was it my fault?
    Keep calm, Alan…be confident.”
    “Sorry, must be a defective board…may have shaken something loose en route.”
     Dr. Paterson had given me two or three spare “boards” filled with complicated soldered resistors and what not.)
    “Just do a replacement…slide this board out and put a new one in…happens all the time.”
    “OK, now take a good song with the hammer:
    “Bingo…working fine…measures time vibration gets to the seismograph in milliseconds…
    te more distant the hammer or the explosives get from the seismograph the closer we get to finding 
    what is underground.  What you want is a stable rock base…or a rock knob to prevent any more slippage.
    That will take s lot of readings…(no need for an audience is what I really meant)”
    “My credibility had been established…by pure luck…well, more than luck, let’s say guts…Dad always
    called me a ‘gutsy bugger’

    GUESS WHO ARRIVED THAT FIRST DAY ON THE JOB?

    Once the board was replaced all went well.   Firing box for  Explosives worked perfectly. All I had to do was push the button and  then
    write down the milliseconds it took  for the sound wave to reach the seismograph.  Simply add  up the little twinkling lights.  At least that
    is what I remember.  Things became routine.

    My next shock was when I returned to the motel.
    Marjorie was unpacking her suitcase in our room.  




    “Marjorie, I thought you were going to wait a couple of days?”
    “Not in that Vancouver hotel.  I  was sacred so I caught the night 
    bus to Merritt…arrived this morning.”
    “Scared?”
    “Strange men…noise…drunks…did not want to stay around.”
    “Glad to see you…perfectly safe here…”

    A little later, the mine geologist showed up to make me feel welcome.  Me?
    He was surprised to find an  attractive young woman in my room with me.
    Wore a kind of lopsided grin when I introduced Marjorie to him.

    The next day I got the scuttlebutt from our hammer man that the execs thought I had
    brought a hooker in from Vancouver.  They were certain of that.  No matter how many
    times  I introduced  Marjorie as my wife, they figured I was leading them on.

    “Marjorie, these guys think you are a hooker…can’t dissuade them…”
    “So, let’s leave it at that then Alan.”

    Pictures: Marjorie…I know these were taken a few years after the BC venture…but they seem to fit.

    As the days wore on, I think they came to realize Marjorie was my wife but we were 
    never sure that fact was believed.  There is  an old story about mining that I picked
    up when working on the Elliot Lake uranium job.  Our liaison man on that job said
    “The best way to tell if a mine is going to be operational is the arrival of the hookers.”
    Maybe Marjorie was a good luck omen.

    WHAT WAS THE RESULT OF THE SURVEY?

    I was only the field man.  The interpretation of my results was done by professional geophysicists like Dr. Paterson back in Toronto. 
    The execs from Cominco would have liked me to tell them if the unstable north wall of the open pit was on the verge of collapse
    or whether it would  stabilize due to a  tilt in the bedrock.  I never did know the results.  That was true of all the jobs except for
    the Southern Irish job where Dr. Stam and geologist John Hogan were on site for the duration of the job.  

    When we finished our seismic readings and the results were sent back to Toronto, the job was over.  

    So here we were in Central British Columbia with s  few days before school started back in Toronto.   What should  we do?
    Fly home right away?   I never liked doing that on any job.   Seemed  an absolute waste because most of the places we surveyed
    were distant from Toronto. Some were fascinating places like Anchorage, Alaska…Keno City, Yukon Territory…Bunmahon, County 
    Waterford, Slouther Ireland.   It would be stupid to rush home.  And it would be costly since two airfares were involved only one of
    which was covered by the company.










    “Marjorie, why don’t we catch the CPR Canadian…the transcontinental railway?”
    “Can we do that?”
    “On our own time…company job is over.”
    “Expensive?”
    “We can cover most of it with my return fare…maybe even cheaper.”
    “How?”
    “Let’s just reserve one sleeper bed…a lower?”
    “Is there room for two?”
    “Who cares?”

    CPR The Canadian sleeping car section

    So we did.  We came back to Toronto on board the ‘Canadian’…meals in the dining car, vistas enjoyed from
    the dome car and both of us folded into the lower bunk sleeper.   A little tight but No problem.  Job over.

    AND  SO  ENDED MY CREER AS A FIELD EXPLORATION MAN IN THE MINING INDUSTRY.
    EACH DAY SEEMED TO HAVE A NEW ADVENTURE.  SO GLAD YOU HAVE TAKEN
    THE TIME TO READ THESE NOTES.

    ALAN SKEOCH
    FEB. 8, 2019

    P.S. There will be some short notes coming…such  as the GOOD FOOD note below


    THE GOOD LIFE : GOURMET COOK 

        (And a game for you to test your vision)


    Envy?  I can understand why many readers are envious when the descriptions of life in the
    wilderness are sent.   I have noted that some recipients only look at the pictures
    and ignore the rich prose that I take a long time to string together.  So here is a very
    short descriptive essay that is really a game.  See if you can find each of the items
    listed below.  The picture underscores just how wonderful life in the bush can be.

    photo  Taken: Yukon job 1962 



    See if you can find the following from list under the photo




    1) Spruce pole bed
    2) Gold Pan
    3) Bird’s Custard can
    4) Bird’s Cutard with stale bread and Klim milk powder
    5) wash basen/ dining bowl  (double duty)
    6) Candles  (indication this camp has been used for week)
    7) Instant coffee cans
    8) long underwear
    9) fancy boots
    10) Mattress
    11) Alarm Clock, wind  up kind
    12) tarpaulin floor
    13) discarded  matches
    14) Two spoons (evidence of communal dining)
    15) Clothing storage area
    16) Mystery: A boot lace? string? heavy duty tooth floss?

        17) One reader noticed the person in the photo is left handed…as I am.

              But I did not own such a fancy pair of long underwear.  We shared
              the meal, however, both left handed cooks.
       18) Another reader commented  on his clean feet and wondered
             whether he had  washed his feet in the wash basin before making
             the skim milk, custard  and stale bread gourmet dinner.  It is  just
            possible he did do that which would add some fine particles to the meal.

    alan skeoch
    Feb. 8,2019
    (picture was taken on the Yukon job in 1961 or 1962)


  • Mystery: Archeology of prospector’s life: THE GOOD LIFE

    THE GOOD LIFE 

    Envy?  I can understand why many readers are envious when the descriptions of life in the
    wilderness are sent.   I have noted that some recipients only look at the pictures
    and ignore the rich prose that I take a long time to string together.  So here is a very
    short descriptive essay that is really a game.  See if you can find each of the items
    listed below.  The picture underscores just how wonderful life in the bush can be.

    photo  Taken: Yukon job 1962 



    See if you can find the following from list under the photo




    1) Spruce pole bed
    2) Gold Pan
    3) Bird’s Custard can
    4) Bird’s Cutard with stale bread and Klim milk powder
    5) wash basen/ dining bowl  (double duty)
    6) Candles  (indication this camp has been used for week)
    7) Instant coffee cans
    8) long underwear
    9) fancy boots
    10) Mattress
    11) Alarm Clock, wind  up kind
    12) tarpaulin floor
    13) discarded  matches
    14) Two spoons (evidence of communal dining)
    15) Clothing storage area
    16) Myarwey boot lace? string? heavy duty tooth floss?

  • SNOW STORM JANUARY 27-28, 2019 — RECOVERY WAS NOT EASY


    BIG SNOW STORM,     january 27 -28, 2019  RECOVERY WAS  NOT EASY

    alan skeoch
    Jan. 30, 2019




    NOW don’t get me wrong.  I do believe that global warming is happening in spite of Ford  and Trump.   So this big snow  storm is unusual…may even
    be remembered with envy as the planet becomes a hot box.   Picture of Andrew…and if you look closely you can see me in his glasses reflection.






    About 25 cm. or more fell…soft fluffy stuff until I tried to shovel out the farm lane…gave up…then Andrew arrived with my tractor and plow.


    Even the tractor an plow had trouble…got stuck in deep snow four times and had to shovel a pathway then rev up the tractor from modest to angry…
    J

    Andrew dressed like an astronaut,  Marjorie feeding the birds, and Woody doing nothing much beside the fireplace.

  • Fwd: FALLING…WE ALL DO IT UNCENSORED VERSION

    Will ANYBODY READ THIS?  I WONDER.  IT IS LONG…  A CAUTIONARY TALE ABOUT FALLING.

    IN THIS DIGITAL WORLD NOT MANY PEOPLE HAVE TIME TO READ MUCH.   WRITING THIS SEQUENCE
    OF HORROR STORIES…ALL TRUE…TOOK THREE DAYS SO I HOPE SOMEONE READS THE STUFF OTHER
    THAN MARJORIE.  I REALLY WROTE IT FOR KEVIN AND ANDY AND GRANDKIDS BUT CAN NEVER BE SURE
    THEY READ THE STUFF.





    FALLING:   WERE WE REALLY MEANT TO BE BIPEDAL?

    alan skeoch
    January 2019

    When I told Marjorie I was going to write a story about Falling, she wondered if I meant 
    Falling in Love.  Not so.  Falling in Love would be a good story mind you but this sequence of
    stories is about falling and hurting yourself.  Rather I should falling and hurting myself.
    I am sure anyone who reads this story will have his or her own stories about falling.
    Why?  Because everybody falls.   The lucky ones fall in love.  Others just fall and bash
    up their bodies.




    FALLING:   CREDIT RIVER MISTAKE   1985

    “ALAN, the ice on the Credit River is perfect.  One sheet of perfect ice from Port Credit to the Q.E.W. bridge.  Let’s go skating…I mean real skating
    not that baby circling stuff.”
    “Wonderful idea”
    “Just watch out for the cracks…otherwise no problem.”

    Well, as things turned out there was one other nearly invisible problem.  Sand.  Wind blown sand.  I was skating as free as a bird…moving with the wind
    on a great water day when  WHAM!  My blades hit the sand.  My skates stopped…dead stop…jettisoned me forward so fast that my nose hit the ice before my arms.  Some of
    you may not know that the human nose is not meant to be a skate blade.  Look below for my demonstration of this fact.



    This is the opening photo/print essay on how falling has affected my life on this earth.
    ‘Who gives a sweet damn about your life, Alan?’  Good question.  if you feel that way
    then please do not read any farther.   But should you be like every other human being
    on the planet you will have fallen a few times. Sometimes with horrific consequences
    sometimes all you have to do is get back on your feet.  Some people never get back
    on their feet.

    Makes a person wonder abut bipedalism.   Were we meant to walk on two feet?
    Our rib cages suit four legged life better.  Bi-pedalism has some good points…i.e.
    we can read, write and lace up our skates.   But look at my nose?  Yuk!

    Falling!  Wow, have I ever had some bad falls.  Yet, I am still standing.

    alan skeoch
    January 2019

    FALLING is as natural as sitting and standing but has more negative consequences.



    FALLING:  THE DAY  I GOT DOORED…RHYMES WITH GORED    1952




     I had a bad  fall was  back in 1952 when  I got ‘doored”.   I  was going into Grade 8 when Mom said that her friend  Vi  Couling
    needed an office boy at the Queens Park Parliament buildings.  What a wonderful opportunity so I cycled all the way downtown early each
    morning on my bike and then returned at night.  A long long bicycle ride.  Fourteen and  full of piss and vinegar…energy to burn…until that
    car door suddenly opened  in front of me in the rush  hour traffic on St. George Street.  The door cut into my shoulder like a machete
    cutting sugar cane.  Whomp!  I tumbled to the sidewalk and the front wheel of my bike got twisted.   I remember the woman who opened
    the door scream “Are you hurt?”  What to say?  “No, I’ll be fine.”  Others stopped.  Something was wrong with my body.  I could not lift my
    left arm…it  sort of hung there.  No pain or at least not much pain.  The lady slammed the door shut and took off up  the street and the car
    melted into the traffic flow.   That left me and my bike half in the  gutter and half on the sidewalk.  The term ‘doored’ had  not been  coined
    back then.  “Somehow, Alan, you have to get home.” But home was a long way to the north west. My bike was  driveable once the handlebars
    were forced  back a bit.  My left arm however was not as easily remedied.  I could pedal  the bike with my right hand steering and braking.
    But it was not going to easy.  Nothing else could I do.  Finding help when hurt is not easy.  But there was  one thing I could do.  I could sing.
    And I did.  Lyrics from the King and  I. “Whenever I feel afraid, Ihold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune so no one will suspect I’m 
    afraid.”  Over and over again I  mumbled this song.  It took about an hour or maybe longer to wend my way from Queen’s Park to 455
    Annette Street where  I knew mom would  be waiting. “Alan, what happened, you’re white as a sheet.” “Got hit by a  car door…I think 
    something is broken.”  Mom  washed  me up and  we hustled by bus to St. Joseph’s hospital where an X Ray revealed  I had a broken
    clavicle.  A simple  break…the bone was in place.  A sling and some aspirins helped.  Next day I went back to work on the bus and street car
    which was  a lot less fun than whistling my way through the city by bicycle.  Jammed into a  rush hour crowd  proved to cause other problems
    when a pervert tried to rub up against me.  “My that man is  close to me…almost like his hand is in my pocket.”  His hand  was in my
    pocket!  His intentions were sexual.  He scared me more than being whacked by the car door.   What to do?  I got off the street car fast
    and waited for the next one.  That cost me a double fare.  Seemed it was safer on my bicycle…and cheaper.   As soon as I could
    I got back on my bike.

    Aside:  One amusing event happened on the job when Deputy Provincial Secretary R. J. Cudney called me to his office.

    “Alan, we have a problem.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “There are ten marriage licences  missing.”
    “yes, sir?”
    You have  been putting the great seal of Ontario on the licences  in batches of 250.”
    “I have … yes  sir.”
    “Did you notice any discrepancy?  Numbering is consecutive.”
    “No, sir…”
    “Thank you, Alan, you may go.”

    What was really happening here?  Took me a  while to understand that the Deputy
    Provincial Secretary was checking to see if I has stolen TEN marriage licenses.
    Mr. Cudney never said that directly.  What in hell’s half acre would i want with
    ten marriage licences?  Ten wives in the future, maybe?  In 1952 I could barely
    look at girls…let alone future wives.  Mr. Cudney came to that conclusion and sent
    a man to check with the printer whose numbering system must have made an error.
    Missing marriage licences was a serious business.

    But why would I even be a suspect?  Good reason.  My job was a very responsible job.

    “Alan, your job is to put the Great Seal of Ontario on all of our official documents…this big silver seal…goes in  a press like this.
    In addition, Alan I want to show you how to but a blue ribbon and  hot wax seal of letters of incorporation.  Shove this sharpened
    tool through the top left corner , made a cross with the ribbons, then melt the hot wax over the place where the blue ribbon crosses and push this seal into
    the hot wax.”

    I did that job for the full Grade 8 summer.  Loved it.  I also sent many letters of congratulation for Golden Wedding anniversaries.
    Just for fun I sent several congrats with the big seal to my Grandmother and Grandfather on the farm near Acton…maybe sent
    a dozen or so.   I think Mr. Cudney became aware of this juvenile indiscretion and ignored  it.  He was a very formal man.  I filled
    his water thermos every morning…a silver jug kind of thing.  Formal relationship.  Office boy.  But He trusted me.  How do  I know that?

    “Alan, the CNE starts next week and I would like you to protect the Great Seal of Ontario.”
    How do I do that, sir?”
    “You will work nights…all night…guarding the Great Seal in the Government Building…are you willing?”
    “yes sir.”
    “Every night, all night long?”
    “yes sir.”
     
    Now that was a nice job.  All alone in the government building.  Not boring at all.  In the 1950’s the government building was  full of interesting 
    things.  One branch had a  demonstration involving a  long electric train.  I  loved  working that.  The central quadrangle was, however,   was the most
    fascinating because Lands and Forest brought in live Ontario wild animals in cages…raccoons,  skunks, foxes, beavers…and  many  fish tanks
    with pike, trout, pickerel…maybe even a muskelunge.   As the evenings wore on I made a great discovery that really kept me awake and  interested.
    The open air quadrangle was alive with creatures other than those imported.  Rats! Lots of  rats…black, brown, beige…big, small…shy and bold.
    So I would  hide behind a pillar and  count to fifty then peak out.  Rats  all over the place.  Once they saw my face they scampered away and disappeared….
    as if they never existed.  Mom made me a midnight meal and  gave me a thermos of milk…I kept that away from the rats.

    I took the job very seriously but today in 2019, I have a second thought.  Just suppose someone wanted to steam the Great Seal of Ontario.
    And suppose that person decided the best time to steal would be at night.  Do you think a fourteen year old boy would  be able to prevent the
    theft.  Mr. Cudney did not arm me with a weapon.   That adventure seems very strange.  But it happened … after I was doored.

    FALLING — THE SEWER GRATE INCIDENT    1956

    I loved my Humber Sports racing bicycle with hand  grip brakes,  But it failed to reciprocate the love one day On Evelyn Avenue.  I was racing down
    Evelyn heading for a visit with my friend Russ Vanstone.  Going as fast I could.  Now the tires and wheel rims of racing bikes are very narrow…maybe
    an inch or so in diameter.  As it so happened  the open spaces in sewer grates is about 1.5 inches.  I discovered this the hard  way.  My front wheel 
    suddenly dropped and locked in sewer grate. The bike stopped but I did not stop. I was catapulted over the handlebars and landed face first on the
    bricks and cement of the sidewalk.   My facial skin was ripped badly.  What to do?  I had to get home to mom who would know whatever first aid
    was needed.   

    “Alan,  what happened?”
    “I fell, bike got caught in sewer.”
    “You’ve got brush burns on face and  shoulders….bad  ones.”

    That was all I remembered.  Mom stripped me and got me in the bathtub to gently remove the little stones imbedded in my skin…not just on my face.
    Shoulders as well as I was  not wearing a shirt.  But that help I do  not remember.
    When I came to I was shocked to find myself standing stark nude in our bath tub while mom and her friend Ina were carefully cleaning me up.  Now
    that was embarrasing.

    FALLING — THE BROKEN BEER BOTTLE INCIDENT     1944


    During the 1940’s we rented the second floor of a Victorian mansion that was on the corner of Gladstone Avenue and Sylvan Avenue.  The house was really
    inside Dufferin Park.  Gone now.  Living in the park was entertaining since there was a lot of gang activity.  Children left to do  whatever they wanted because
    their fathers were overseas fighting World  War II.  But that is  just speculation on my part.  The fact of gang activity cannot be denied however.  Two big gangs, Junction 

      gange and Beanery gang liked to sort things out with fists and  weapons.  They did this regularly as I remember.  One weapon of choice was the long necked beer bottle. Grab

    the bottle by the neck, slam the bottom on a stone or a cement light standard and Presto…a very lethal looking weapon.  Held in the hand by the neck meant the
    sharp shards of broken glass could be rammed into an adversary.   After the fights the weapons were often discarded  in the park.  Discarding weapons  happened
    very fast once the police arrived.  One Saturday or Sunday afternoon mom took Eric and  I for stroll through the park.  We decided to play a game of Blind Man’s
    Bluff.  A scarf or big handkerchief was tied around my eyes and my job was to find Eric.

    “Can you see, Alan?”
    “Nope…nothing.”
    “Let me turn you around  a few times like this..” I was pivoted
    “Now try and find Eric. He is standing still near you somewhere.”
    “YOW!…I’M CUT…BROKEN GLASS!.”

    I tripped  on a tree root.  Even today I  remember the exact spot that it happened.  I fell and by chance
    one of the beer bottle weapons had been discarded near the tree root.  My left leg fell on the sharp shards
    cutting me badly.  Mom and  Eric were aghast.  I was scared…would  I bleed to death?

    “Alan, come here, we will have get you to a hospital for some stitches:”
    “Stiches?  Hospital?”
    “Yes…fast.”
    “I am not going,”  I began to run home.
    “Come back here Alan.”

    I ran up the stairs, past our landlady Mrs. Southwick, then into our big communal bedroom.  

    “Red, get Alan…he cut himself in the park.”
    “Where is he?”
    “In the bedroom, under the bed…holding on to the springs.”
    “I’ll get him.”

    Then Dad lifted up the bed and grabbed me wrenching me free from my
    death grip on the bed springs.  After that I do  not remember much.  But proof that ithappened is easy
    to find for the scar just above my ankle remains visible to this day.

    FALLING:  UNEXPECTED GYMNASTICS   1957


    Just a short account but I have never told this story to anyone.  Every time I touch the back of my
    head I am reminded of a totally unexpected fall  I had  back in high school.   Gym class with either
    Dunc Green or Streak  McLelland gave me a kind of  confidence I did not deserve.  On the  day in
    question I finally mastered a box horse  somersault.  Made  me  feel pretty good so as I left
    school that afternoon I noticed a bar that ran along the high chain link fence that surrounded our
    football field at Humberside.  There was a gap in the fence so students could come  and
    go.  At the top of gap…about 8 feet up…was a bar running parallel to the ground. A challenge.
    I took a run, jumped up and grabbed the bar.  Expected to swing there like the high wire acrobats.
    But the bar swivelled.  And  I fell backwards, head down.  And landed  on the concrete below.
    Hit hard.  Was a bit stunned as  I remember. No one saw me.  I got up and continued home but
    did  not feel too good.  And there was a  bump on the back of my head.  That bump is still there.
    Not sure if the bump was because of the fall or whether everyone has such a bump.

    What I remember most about that incident is how stupid I felt. I took an
    unnecessary risk and  was  lucky the consequence were not worse.

    FALLING:  THE CROSS BODY BLOCK AND SMASHED FINGER   1958




    I am not the greatest athlete in the world.  But football was one sport in which I excelled  in a very small way.
    Few people ever notice the way  linemen open holes for the glory boys…half backs, full back, quarter backs.
    The linemen do  this by throwing their bodies against the defencemen on the other team.  We had  a marvellous
    coach at Humberside, Fred Burford, who knew how each of the 24 players on the field should act…how they
    should step, turn, use shoulders or throw  cross body  blocks.  Short choppy steps so legs are
    coiled and ready to launch  the body.  Cross  body  blocks were used to take out outside linebackers  mostly.
    Nothing mean about the block.  Get close to the opposing player then launch body into the air parallel to the ground,
    try to hit him with your hip. Part of the game.  No ill will involved.  Football was a  science to Mr. Burford.
    I loved it.  And got qjuite good at the Cross  Body.  Except one day things went a bit awry when I threw a 
    Cross Body, took out the Corner Backer but let one hand hit ground splayed out like a bull frogs hand.
    The ball carrier or someone ran right over my hand with their football spikes.  Smashed  my little finger..broken in
    several places.

    My poor little finger!   Sounds like such  a trifling thing…a broken little finger.  But that finger had immense 
    consequences to me.  First, was the operation.  Mom and  dad were both working so I travelled  to St. Jospeph’s
    hospital by street car one school day.  I was in Grade 13…a big year…a tough year.   Missing a day  of school
    was a problem that late October morning but it had to be done.  Now, that is not the truth.  I could have managed
    quite well with that broken finger.  Some would say  I should have ignored the medical advice and cancelled the
    operation.  Too late when I was on that street car.  Let me put the events that followed  in dialogue form.

    “Day surgery, young man, put on this robe.”
    (Robe as  we all know is  a misnomer.  Half a robe is a better term.  Bare ass to the wind robe is even better.)
    “Now we are going to prep you for the surgery, pull up your sleeve…just going to shave
    your arm…clean.”
    “Why are you shaving my right arm when the operation is  on my left arm…little finger?”
    “Sorry, young man, wrong arm.”
    “Big needle!”
    “Local  anesthetic…just feel a bit of a  prick.”  That was an understatement with many meanings. Prick?
    “There, we’ll wheel you into the hall … wait here until the doctor’s ready.”
    (Waited there a long time…too long as  it turned  out.)
    “OK, your turn now…operating theatre.
    ‘What are those people above me doing?”
    “Watching…mostly interns…future surgeons.”
    (Doctor entered with several attendants)
    “OK son, we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
    “Just cut here…length of finger”
    “YOW!!!  HURTS DOCTOR…REALLY HURTS!”
    “When did this boy get the local anesthetic?”
    “At 10…”
    “Ten?  It’s  now nearly noon…needle  has worn off…quick give 
    him another shot.”
    The  doctor did his job…cut, cleaned, wired little bones back in place…while I looked up
    at the half dozen faces looking down at me from their circle guest seats in the so called theatre.
    Not much pain after the second local  cut in.  I could live with it.
    “There, slap on the  cast and soon you can go home.  Anyone here to take you home?”
    “Nope…mom and dad both working.”
    “How will you get home?”
    “Street car.”
    “Fine.”

    As I remember there was a  street car line on Roncesvales  back  then…hooked up with the Annette Street bus
    and got me home.  The cast was a little bit red at the tip.  Some blood oozing…not much but enough to make
    me feel woozy.  Got home and  went to school…maybe for afternoon classes.  Not sure about that.  What I became sure about
    was the fact I could no longer take notes…couldn’t write.  Cast on my hand was like a big club with a tiny wire tip sticking out.
    The wire held  the broken bones in place.  Eventually it was pulled out cleanly.  Successful operation but my high 
    school career was affected.  No ability to make notes.  I am left handed.

    I felt OK. Even able to go back and play football.  In one of the games I made a really good below the knees  tackle of the enemy ball carrier…took him
    down like a calf in a  rodeo.  Burford even congratulated me.  But looked  at me strangely.   Something was wrong.  A couple of weeks later both
    Burford and Griffiths, the football coaches  cornered  me in the second floor hall.  I did not think they even knew I existed.

    “Does that cast bother you Alan?”
    “not particularly.”
    “Does it affect your homework…your note taking…your classes.”
    “Not too bad, sirs….no”
    (I lied, what else could  I do?  Later, much later, I realized the football coaches were getting flack about football injuries.  I was not
    the only boy with a problem.  One of my fellow team players had  taken a fit…convulsions…from a head  injury.   So the coaches were 
    worried. Other teachers were questioning the football cult.  My dismissal of the problem must have made them feel a bit better. If they believed  me.

    Causation states that for every cause there is an effect.  Bloody obvious, right?   Not quite so simple though.  When I  taught high school
    history I amended the principle of causation.  “For every cause there are multiple effects.”  Consequences.   Well, the trivial matter of my
    broken finger had  lots of effects some of which I will record…others i will not record because so  many good things happened that recording
    them here seems like bragging.   I counted  over 20 consequences  of that broken finger…some negative  but most of  them terrific…so terrific
    that I dare not send them to any readers lest they  consider me a big blowhard  like  that asshole  Trump.

    What seemed to be a tragedy ended up as one of the best years of my life.  To say much about that year would make me
    seem vain in the extreme so I have deleted the  consequences and inserted the Bad Joke below.  Would you do this
    to your mother?

    BAD JOKE:  FALLING 

    Our family lived on the second floor of 455 Annette Street in 1957.  A long staircase went up to our family home of three rooms.  Coming home
    from a football game one day Mom was waiting at the top of the stairs to hear from Eric and I about a game that day.

    “How was the game, Alan.”
    “Eric got hurt.”

    And I threw Eric’s helmet on the floor.  Russ Vanstone had inadvertently run over the helmet with his 1956 Chevrolet.  Smashed it all to hell.
    Eric, Russ and I thought it would be a good joke on mom.  Now that was not a good idea.  But we were teen agers. the story sort fits this sequence of stories on falling.
    Mom did not scream but she did put her hand to her mouth as I remember.  Then Eric popped up the stairs.





    Consequences of that broke finger:

    Deleted:  If Kevin or Andrew or grandkids want to know I will send an uncensored copy

    1)  Pain for a  short time
    2)  Could  not write…no school notes  or homework  done
    3)  Pressure on final Gr. 13 exams made my mind go blank in physics exam. 
    I could not remember what the basic symbol, the letter ’s’ stood for…a critical situation
    4) My Gr. 13 average marks  dropped to around 70% which  was not enough for
    acceptance into university
    5) I  had choice of joining the work force or going back  to high school to improve my marks
    I  chose to go back although it was  embarrassing…even felt humiliated
    6) Rejoined  the football team and was chosen captain
    7) Elected President of Boys  Athletic  Association
    8) Got suspended for a week along with Vic and Ted  for taking an afternoon to
    spot … look for weakness in an enemy high schools football team. Unsportsmanlike behaviour said VP Mr. Couke and he was correct I agreed.
    9) Reconsidered my life decided to use my spare periods as  a chance to read
    books  I had never had  time to read  as much before…Eric Fromm, Charles Dickens (all his  novels), John  Steinbeck, Arnold Toynbee, Robert Service,
    Luke Short, Loren Eisley (sp?),
    Robert Browning, Robert Frost, John Wyndham, Dwight Eisenhaur biography…lots of books…devised a check out notebook listing number
    of  pages to be read each half hour…often  exceeded my estimate…had my head  in books for most of that year.
    10) Asked  head  of history Evan Cruikshank if I could write the Gr. 13 history exam by  home study…got his permission.  Same
    applied  to the Gr. 13 English exam…got permission from Roberta Charlesworth
    11)  Made many speeches in auditorium promoting yearbook,  athletics,  school dances, etc.
    12)  Had chance to consider my future…university bound  but scared  about it…mom was  a seamstress,
    dad was a  tire builder, thus a working class family so university was a novel experience. Was I biting off more than I could chew?
    13) was chosen for both football all star teams by Toronto newspaper…Toronto Star, Toronto Telegram
    14) was chosen Head Boy for Humberside Collegiate Institute 1958
    15) Improved my marks and  was accepted  as a student at Victoria  College, University of Toronto
    16) was asked to make the farewell speech for Mr. Les Devitt, math teacher who, during WW! was a test
    pilot for Toronto made aircraft.  if he felt a plane to be unworthy he deliberately crash  landed the plane
    so no young man would  be endangered in a war combat situation…fact unknown to students until then.
    17) Broke up with my steady girl friend…we just went separate ways…which led  to meeting Marjorie Hughes
    at Victoria College second  year sock hop.  We had good chemistry…natural…friend for life… became my wife. 
     If I hadn’t broken that little finger we might never have met.  Marjorie had a lot of men to choose from.  I was  
    lucky even if undeserving at times.
    18) wrote a  play  about our 38th Rover Crew…corny but a lot of fun.

       19) had long talks with Russ Vanstone about just about anything…politics (he was s conservative, I was CCF or Liberal or nothing, Girls, 

      and a lot of talk about football.  Cemented s life long friendship.
     20) Spent time with friend Red Stevenson, we were Rover Scouts … took our joint First Class journey near Van Dorf, a rural community north of Toronto that is
    now so totally urban that few can remember the farm barns once so common.


    FALLING:  ICE AT FARM…BASHED  BACK OF MY HEAD  2010

    Just a short story here.  I was working alone at the farm one midwinter morning.  Snow had turned to ice  on
    the sloping fields and  I slipped.   Anyone who  has fallen knows that once the  fall begins  there is not much
    a person can do to stop it.  You  can  roll like a wrestler does but usually the fall is  so fast that little can be done.
    That was the case on that winter day in 2010.  My feet slipped forward and I went over backward and my head  struck
    the hard ice like a pumpkin hits the trash  bin  after Halloween.  It hurt.  But not that much really.  So I continued
    working and did not give too much thought about it until I dropped into the hardware store to get some lumber.

    “Can  you take a look at the back of my head?”
    “Jesus, you got a big slice there…some blood,..flap of skin and hair…let me 
    get our first aid  kit.”
    And  the man who handles  lumber bandaged me up until I got home
    “Alan,  we’ll need  to see Dr. Bahiya at the Walkin In…you need  stitches.”

    And  so  my head  was sewn back  together.  Not really a big deal.   I wondered why there was so little blood for
    head wounds are supposed to be bloody.  Later, I went back and thanked the hardware guy.




    FALLING:  DROPPED OFF A SMALL CLIFF IN SOUTH OF  FRANCE      2014







    (We were having a grand time in the South of France…our own farm house for a week…then WHAM!)



    Too many pictures here, I know that.   Who takes pictures when someone is injured?.  As fortune would have it, Kevin decided to document the
    experience.  Fortunately he was not present when the French nurse said  “en face out non?”


    (What was the worst part?  Coming out of the anesthetic. )


    “What a  great day…sunshine in the morning makes me  happy as the John Denver song goes.”
    “A little early to get up, Alan.”
    “Let everyone sleep, I am going for a walk  and take some pictures of that Lavender Field down the road.”
    “Breakfast in an  hour.”

    We had rented a French farm house about an hour north of Marseilles.  Beautiful area.  Soft sunshine, pastel painted villages,  lavender fields
    and even wild pigs.  No  English spoken…really the old France before the descent of English tourists by the busload.

    “Dad, it would  be best if you did not try to speak  French…:’
    “Why?”
    “Because your accent is terrible and  you keep slipping English words into the conversation which confuses everyone.”
    “To hell with you.”

    So I was alone on my walk and climbed a small hill…rock strewn hill that ended  in a rather steep decline on the other side.
    But the lavender field  was stunning.  I got out my pocket camera and  began snapping.  At the same time I was backing up
    to get a  better panorama.  Bscked too far…feet stepped on a  whole pile of rounded pebble…like ball bearings to my feet.
    Suddenly I was rolling…faster and faster…no control…over the steep cliff face…faster and  faster.  Then WHACK!  I  hit
    a tree halfway down the hill…bounced off and continued the fall.  Heard something crack… Had time to think and protect my camera in my clenched
    fist…hit a couple of rocks and  then fell about five or six feet to the road  below.  Landed  spread eagled.  

    “God-damn-it-all -anyway, must have broken my camera,” That was my first thought when I got my bearings.
    “Camera is  fine,”  Unrapped it from my clenched fist.  
    “Then why sound of that crack?”
    “My wrist…right side…broken.”

    I took stock  of myself and the picture was  not good.  Quite a bit of  blood, broken wrist, bruised  legs,  clothes torn.   A car came by  and  swerved  to
    avoid me but did not stop.  Maybe I looked like a drunk.   “Got to get back to the farm house…drag myself…cannot faint.”
    Slowly made it back…Knocked on the door…why did I knock?  Don’t know.   Morgan, one of granddaughters answered.

    “What happened to you Grandpa?:  she screamed
    “Need to get to a hospital…fell off a  cliff…broke my wrist…all  bashed  up.”
    “Kevin, get the car…must be a hospital around here…a town?”

    Found a hospital and was immediately admitted  and wheeled from emergency to a private hospital bed.  “God, this  is going to cost a lot of money,”
    ran through my head.  But when hurt money does  not really matter.   A couple of doctors examined my wrist after the brush  burns  were attended to.

    “Vous avez besoin d’ operation immédiatement.”
    “Ou?”
    “Ici?…aujourd’hui  ou demain.?”

    I said my French  was  only fair, but in this crisis it got worse.  We agreed to have the surgeon operate the next morning.  No  mention of money.
    So I spent that night alone in a strange hospital in a foreign country in a nervous state.  Stupidly I  had asked them to put me under…and anesthetic…
    for the operation.  Wish that had  never been agreed.  When I  woke up later that day…maybe early afternoon…first person I saw  was Marjorie
    sitting on a  chair reading.  But I couldn’t breath.  Had a mask on my face and maybe oxygen was being pumped at me.  But my lungs were out
    of  synchronization with the artificial  lung.  Sheer terror.  Made things worse.  I just could  not breathe.  Took a  few minutes for my lungs to take over
      I remember that fear to this day.   Any operations that can be done using local anesthetics are welcome.  Knock-out is not.

    I do not know how long I was supposed to stay in the hospital.   Several days I think.  I managed to stay two more nights I think
    entertained myself in the dark hours of the night by singing.  Yes,  singing.  My brother says I cannot sing.  But I know better.  My version
    of Old  Man River  coursed through the halls.  “Old Man River, he just keeps rolling…keeps on rolling along…”    Not sure but I think one
    night I heard  another voice from somewhere nearby also  singing.

    Finally, I just walked  out of the hospital.  Paid  my bill earlier.  Guess how much?  No, let me tell you. The cost for everything…hospital bed,
    doctors  assessments,  washing, surgery, anesthetic, meals, surgery, nurses…the cost was $2,000. That was all.   Terrific treatment too.

    One funny incident  happened while I was recovering.  My body was  badly bruised…black on one side of my body, white on the other.  Like
    some medieval  clown.   At some point early on I had to take a leak…had to take it bad.   Indicated such to the nurse and  she
    said  four words I cannot forget:  “En face ou non?”   What did that mean?  Ahah…she  is  asking if I need  to face the toilet or
    sit down.  If I have to sit down then she will have to help me take a leak.  Yuk!  I responded after a few moment thought, “En face”
    I did  not add “s’il vows plait” but got right down to business.  The nurses expression did  not change.  What a relief?  I could take
    a leak.  If I could take a leak  then I must be OK.  So, shortly afterward,  I just walked out of the hospital.  Kevin and  the
    rest of the family picked me up on the  road.  No, I was not half naked  wearing a hospital gown that made me bare ass  to the
    wind.  I had dressed  myself…hurt a bit but did it.

    The final  insult came when we were back in England and discovered that Air Canada would not let me fly home until I was
    certified  as  air worthy by a  doctor.   I understand why.  Occasionally we  read of a passenger jet having to land in some
    distant airport because of a passenger emergency.  The hurts everybody.  So we got a doctor in London who examined  me
    gave the green light.  And finally we got home…to my bed…sorry, our bed.   Washroom right beside us where I  do not need
    to make the choice of “en face ou non.”

    The operation was a success.  Only difficulty was the temporary wires or pins  holding my wrist together were covered
    by my skin…had to be cut open to pull the pins weeks later.  Really no big deal.


    FALLING    THE STEPS WERE INVISIBLE…TORN ACHILLES TENDON     2017


    (Torn Achilles tendon…wheelchair and ‘the plastic boot’…meant Marjorie had more work to do)


    We  travelled  first class on British Rail from London to Sheffield. Supposed to be the beginning of a
    great family Christmas in England.   Nice  way to start.  Spacious seats, big picture windows,  private table,
    a light meal, and a super fast train.

    Unfortunately things did  not work out as planned.  Gabriela had purchased a used Volvo from a car
    dealer in Sheffield.   Quite a fancy showroom in a converted factory.  Lots of  soaring stairways and great 
    architectural  details to make car buyers feel special.  A nice walkway joined the two showrooms
    with excellent photos of  the old factory on both walls.  I walked  up the entry curved slope looking
    at the pictures.  And then I stepped  off into space. Flying in the air…hurtling for s few seconds. Have you heard of infinite swimming pools that seem
    to stretch to the horizon. I expected the gentle curve walkway  would be the same at both ends.  It was  not.
    the far end had abrupt steps  downward.   I missed them and stepped off into space.

    Fell about five feet down  on to a cement floor.  Twisted  as I  fell.  Ended up almost paralyzed behind  two new cars.  Could not get
    up as  my legs would not work.  Grabbed the back  of a car.  No help.  Finally three salesmen found me.  Some  blood from head
    and hand cuts but, worse,  legs wouldn’t work right.  Especially left leg…like it was broken.   

    “Carry or help me over this  ramp …family over there.”
    “Dad,  what happened?”
    “Alan, you are hurt…how did it…”
    “Didn’t see the steps…thought I was on a ramp…maybe I will get better if I sit down”

    Never got better.  Very painful.  Could  not walk.  They bundled me up in the new car and
    drove back to London…took about 5 hours.   Then Gabriela phoned the Highgate Private Hospital
    who took me  right away.  A very concerned doctor poked and  prodded while I lay  flat on my
    face trying to do what he asked.

    “Move your toes on right foot:
    “There, how is  that?”
    “Now move your toes on the left foot…move them.”
    “They won’t move.”
    “Looks like you have torn your Achilles  tendon.  We won’t know how bad until we take X-Rays and
    see the surgeon who happens to be in the building.”

    So began a whole bunch of things.  The X Rays  conformed  my tendon was torn badly…80% torn.  Just barely 
    holding.  A specialist then fitted me with a huge plastic boot with rubber pockets that could  be hand pumped. 
    Kevin phoned and rented me a  wheelchair for I could not walk.   Our joyous Christmas plans were put on hold.

    Not all bleak though.  I was  able to drag myself…or, rather, Marjorie was able to drag me to a couple of the Charity stores  
    that feature cheap clothes,  various discarded  hard  goods,  and  piles and piles of good  books.  We bought a big
    pile of each.  Kevin managed  to wheel me into a pub or two for a local pint of  ale.  

    The best thing that happened was the wheelchair.  People do not look at you if you are in a wheelchair.  Other wheelchair
    people do look however and greet and share their grief.  I was not alone. It was  a  new kind  of existence. And we turned
    it into a bit of fun.  Various entertainers played flutes, sang songs, picked at guitars…most had caps in hand  or on the 
    sidewalk for donations.   Now this  gave me an idea.   Why not join them.  So Kevin, Marjorie an Gabriela  parked  me
    beside a tall lean man collecting money for Cancer.  I looked  part of the charity.  Put on a solemn face and turned  my
    baseball cap into a money pot.   Before my joke turned sour we dumped  the money in the cancer pot and  Kevin  wheeled  me 
    away.

    Back in Canada I was disappointed to learn that it would take another three months or moe for me to even consider walking
    normal.  And for most of that time I  had to wear the accursed boot.  At night, however, it could be loosened and eventually removed.
    Sadly I will never be perfect again I fear.  But damn close to perfect.

    That bit of bravado got me into deep trouble a year later at the High Park Curling Rink.




    FALLIING     SLIPPED ON THE ICE…BACKWARDS WITH HEAD  HITTING LIKE A  GONG      NOVEMBER. 2018



    My torn Achilles tendon was healing well.  I spent a lot of money doing therapy at $75 a crack during the summer and fall
    of 2018.  I wanted to be ready to curl again.   Monica had taken over my skip responsibilities and  she was good but I needed
    to take command again just to inflate my ego a little.  No more classy deliveries.  I was using the stick which made curling
    look like shuffleboard.  Hot shot curlers make snide remarks of those that use the stick  They believe we are not real curlers.   And
    they are right.  Amazing how they change their minds when they get older and  a little stiff in the joints and then have to
    use the stick as well.  Humbling experience.  In my case I kept wearing my slider. Slider?  That’s a piece of slippery leather
    worn on one foot so a curler can slide down the ice a ways while delivering a rock.  

    Mistake I made was continuing to wear my slider on my right foot.  While at the same time I  was recovering from
    that torn Achilles tendon on my left foot.  Two feet that were handicapped.  But I managed to get back in the game.
    Got over confident as usual. Then one evening I threw a real killer take out rock.  Gave it all I could give.  Too much.
    I ripped up in the air…two feet forward  and up…head pointed down.  Then crashed to the ice.  My head hit with such
    force that the curlers at the other end of the ice stopped in mid stride.  Fortunately I was wearing a helmet that I got
    for a couple of dollars at a farm sale.   That helmet saved my life.  Yes, no overstatement.  Even with the helmet
    on I was  a bit stunned.  Hit so hard I cracked the helmet which takes some doing. So there I  was splayed out on 
    the ice with helpers trying to help.  “Leave him there.”  “Get him up.” “Is he conscious?”  

    They got me to my feet and then called the medics on 911.  “That’s the rule, Alan, if a head hits the ice
    we have to call the Paramedics, so just sit here until they come,” said Stephen Low, worried  I  would 
    just drive home.   I guess it was a slow night because in no time I had four or five paramedics around me
    poking me and asking questions.  The teams came off the ice and  were suddenly quiet…most unusual
    for loudmouth curlers.  I think they thought I was dying.  Admittedly I was a  bit confused. Medics do  that
    to a person.  

    The silence bothered me.  Like being in a  funeral home.  Then I remembered a comment by Mark Twain
    commenting on a newspaper article the was wrong.  “It’s OK, everyone, remember that comment by Mark Twain…
    ‘Rumours of my death have  been  greatly exaggerated.”   I could feel the energy pour back into the room
    and  orders for draught beer were back  to normal.

    But my adventure was not over.  Stephen and his son  Andrew drove me home after I refused  to
    go to the local  hospital because ‘my Dad said people only go there to die’ (which he did himself strange to say).
    I will go to our own hospital,…the Trillium in Mississauga.  It was there that the strangest thing happened.
    The triage nurse has to decide priorities…i.e. who needs  care fast.  She noted my particulars…birthday, etc…
    then she asked:

    “And, sir,  what year is this?”
    “Must be 1979.”
    (It was really 2018)

    I do  not know why I said that.  Just a gut answer.  But it was wrong…way wrong.  And the nurse
    put a little red  sticky  thing on my admitting bracelet.  That got me a Catscan an hour later.
    Came out all clear…fortunately.  I was  impressed all the same.

      I was OK.





    FALLING    I MAY NOT BE THE BEST SKIER…BUT I CAN CARTWHEEL    1965-1000


    I forget when Marjorie put our ski equipment in the dump…somewhere around the year 2000.  She had good
    reason to do  so.  She was a better skier than I would ever be as I came to skiing very late in life.  Too many
    other things to do…like work for 35 cents an hour rather than ski at $100 a day (guess work).  When I did
    ski, however, I did a lot of falling.  My style at best became a modified snow plow.  

    Falls?  Lots of them.  Like the time a Smugglers Notch when I got going so fast I could not turn into the woods.
    That would be certain death so I sped down the hill.  Not quite all the way down.  My ski tips dipped and over I
    went into a cartwheel style.  Lucky no one was around and even luckier, I was unhurt.  Other falls?  At 
    Blue Mountain I got ripping down again…too fast to turn or use snowplow.  Came around a pile of stacked  snow 
    at the bottom at the same time another guy like me came hurtling on the other side. Face to face, body to bodyl
    We collided…yes, face to face…could have kissed each other.  The solid thump of our bodies
     spread the impact.  Neither of us were hurt even though we were locked together like two bull moose
    in rutting season.  Then there was my first ski  venture up in North Bay at the Harris ski hills. Alone as  Marjorie
    was busy shopping.  “Let me try your old  boyfriends ski hills”  She had dated Sid Harris  for a bit.  Mike Harris,
    who became a right wing Premier of Ontario, was  the little brother.   That Harris  ski hill should have
    been declared a Ski Hazard.  The lumps on the hills were solid  rocks underneath.  I know because I hit
    many of them and  came back to North Bay with the bruises  to prove it.  My stupidest effort at skiing
    occurred outside Collingwood at the ski hill north of Blue Mountain.  These were steep hills for expert skiers or for 
    those rubber bodied 12 year olds.  On that venture I made a big mistake.  I had one of my skis and one
    of Marjorie’s…a long ski and as short ski.  But I had paid my money so figured I would have to bite the
    bullet ski lob-sided.  I  did for a few body bashing runs.  Fell a lot that time.  Bottom line I never skied
    without a few falls.  Normal for most human beings I think.  Amazing that Marjorie, Kevin, Andrew, 
    my brother Eric and his wife Judy are such hot shots skiers.  Eric  still skis at 78 years of age.  Loves it.
    In my glory days I think I  asked Eric why he wanted  me along on a ski venture. “For entertainment, Alan, entertainment.”


    FALLING     FARMING IS DANGEROUS    1975


    (Get the idea…see Kevin and Andrew beside our old W6, Dad getting beams ready…now imagine that bean across shoulders as the tractor moves forward…no foot on clutch…could not reach pedal)
    (Our old barn had collapsed when we were kids…needed rebuilding)

    “Marjorie, let’s build a new barn?  I’ve got the beams from a barn demolition…we can do it?”
    “Have you ever built a barn?”
    “Learn as I go.”

    Well the lesson was a hard one.  Dad and I planted one long post beam that would be the beginning of
    the barn.  That was as far as I got. 

    “Beam is in the wrong place…pull it down.”

    So I moved Old Red, my W6 1953 tractor near the post then tied a rope to the post and began
    to drive forward.  pulling down the beam.  It was a long beam firmly planted in a post hole
     and as it came down it fell across
    the tractor resting on my shoulders…dead centre.  The pressure was terrible.  Forced my foot
    off the clutch so the tractor kept inching forward and the beam exerted more and more pressure.
    I was being crushed.  Just below me were the boys…watching.   Andrew and Kevin. They
    did not think anything was wrong.  But I was being crushed as the beam pressed harder and
    harder.  Thought I was about to die.  

    Then a strange thing happened.  Adrenalin kicked in and gave me strength I did not know was
    possible.  I squeezed out from under the bean and fell to the ground right where the boys  were
    standing.  They thought I was being funny.  Nothing funny about that fall.



    FALLING     ALASKA — FELL FROM AN S-52 SIKORSKY HELICOPTER     1960



    We were doing geophysical prospecting on the barren lands of western Alaska.  Near the 
    Bering Sea.   A vast land with few people but beneath that land is a gigantic copper
    body whose limits we were trying to measure.  To do so Humble Oil, an American oil
    company, had contracted two Sikorsky S52 helicopters to get our crew from point to point
    on the vast arctic tundra.   We had two ex military pilots one of whom woke us each morning
    with his voice on an battery powered bull horn.

    “Let’s get Fucking airborne!”

    A joyous greeting followed by the thumping and whumping of the helicopter blades as the
    huge machines warmed up.  We welcomed the sound.  And after a few weeks we got
    comfortable sitting with our feet dangling out of the cargo doors as the helicopter lifted itself
    skyward like a giant moose fly.  I got a little too over confident.

    One morning just as the helicopter was lifting off the ground I leapt from the
    pontoon to the cargo door as I had done many times before.  What I forgot that time
    was the reel of heavy base line wire on a pack frame on my back. It weighed about 70 pounds…heavy.
    So when I jumped , I missed the cargo door and fell between the pontoon and the door.
    Fell straight down to the ground. Not as bad as that sounds….perhaps fell only five or ten feet 
     just as lift off was happening.  Hit the tundra back first since the reel and wire flipped me
    over.  Not too much danger landing on tundra in summer time.  Like landing on a twig made
    cushion of low plant life , moss and melt water.

    My biggest worry was when the pilot noticed and brought the helicopter back down.
    He was good…imagine he had done lots of rescues in the heat of battle.  Landed, waited for
    me to throw the wire in the cargo door then jump back in.  And we got ‘fucking airborne’ again.

    There is no thrill quite like cruising through the air in an S-52 with your feet dangling 
    in space as you look down at the earth.  None of us fell from that height.



    FALLING     IN OUR OWN LANE…UNCONSCIOUS    2015


    Falling cannot be stopped once it begins.  Best a person can do is roll with the fall…like a ball…spread the impact around.
    That is fine to say but almost impossible to do sometimes.   One of my worst falls happened in our own laneway.
    There is a patch of asphalt that is a bit lower than elsewhere.  Water fills the patch.  And in the winter time that 
    water freezes into an invisible slab of ice.  There had been a bit of snow falling overnight so the patch of ice
    was even less visible.

    I remember the airborne part of falling that day.  But not much else.  Knocked myself out for a spell of time.  Not sure how
    long but when I awakened I knew i was in trouble.  Dazed.  And some blood.  No glasses anywhere.   I managed to 
    get to the front door:

    “Marjorie, I am hurt…slipped on the ice…need to go to the hospital…get the car ready.”

    And I sat down heavily on the front room couch.  Still a bit dazed.  Instead of the car, Marjorie
    called 911 and two burly medics helped me into their ambulance.  

    I came around….do not remember any stitches.  

     “Alan, we could not find your glasses until Woody nosed along a trail of blood.  Glasses were a long

      way from where you thought you landed.  Must have dragged yourself.”

     I skirt that patch of ice now.  Avoid it… Like today

    when I noticed Marjorie returning from shopping with two big bags.  

    “Just a second, I’ll give you a hand.”
    “You stay right where you are, Alan, that pach of ice…remember?”
    So I did  (Fine husband you are Alan)



    FALLING     FROM A LADDER    1990



    “I Would like that cauldron for our movie…the one up there on the third level.”
    “Just a second…get the ladder and get it down.”
    “There…pull it forward…the ladder is slipping….OWWWWW!”

    Now I cannot tell this full story because the results of the ladder moving would upset sensitive readers.
    Suffice it to say the ladder moved down about two feet with my body pressed against it.  Two feet below
    was an industrial sewing machine with exposed gears and other sharp parts. I hit this point and 
    stopped the ladder.   But I was hurt…how bad?   I could not say immediately because the movie
    set buyer was down on the floor.  She was young and enthusiastic and totally unaware of the
    pain I felt from that short fall.

      Censored:  Use your imagination or speak to me privately


    I was going to be OK.   I can say no more,


    Still standing…most of the time


    FALLING      NO JOKING MATTER:  SAD CASE OF WALTER HELSTEIN  1958

    (Often our trails were almost invisible…just a blaze mare here and there and then, at foot level, inadvertently sharpened saplings.
    Walter Helstein put one of these sharp spikes through his hand.  Nothing could be done to help him. No hospitals could  be reached.)


    Nothing funny about falling.   Really no laughing matter so let me apologize for the light remarks by
    telling you an experience that happened long ago when I began my work in the bush.  We were
    a crew of four dropped by a Beaver float plane in a remote part of the Groundhog River.  No line cutting crew
    so we had to cut our own lines with blazing axes.  That part of the Ontario wilderness had a lot
    of tag alder and scrub poplars growing.  When blazing a trail we would cut the brush with a 
    downward stroke of our blazing axes.  So what?  The tag alders were not cut flush to the
    ground . They were slashed. End result is that a sharp spike was left where the slashing happened.
    Imagine hundreds of these spike along our trails.  Falling on them was certainly dangerous so
    we were cautious.  

    Walter Helstein was an older man recruited from a casual labour pool in Timmins or South Porcupine.
    He had no bush experience.  And he was not in the best of health anyway.

    “Walter, never step on the wet logs that cross our trails…easy to slip and fall…so step
    over them.”
    “Why dangerous?”
    “The Tag alder spikes…fall one of them and it will go through your body like a Japanese jungle
    trap in World War II.”

    So Walter was warned but he was also unfit for our work.  We knew the danger.
    He stepped on top of a moss covered rotten tree that crossed one of our trails.
    He slipped and fell.  His right hand was impaled on a tag alder spike. Bad situation. We did

      not know this had happened because Walter was slower thant Bob, Floyd and me.

      We went back and there he was…spiked.

    By then it was early September and the unnamed lake where we had our fly camp
    was thick with September fog.  No float plane could land even though we put an
    SOS kind of call through to Austin Airways in South Porcupine.  

    Each night in our tent as the freezing wind blew rain in the tent flap and our tin stove
    belched out red hot heat from split birch cordwood…each night Walter’s pain then infection
    got worse and worse until by the 7th or 8th day when a plane finally landed, his arm was
    swollen badly and he was beyond any attempt at conversation.  He cried for s couple of 

     the nights…not tear type crying…paint crying.  Then even that ceased.


    We never heard from Walter again.  Our camp was packed up a week or so later. 
    By then Walter was in a hospital somewhere.  Apparently he spent most of the 
    year in hospital.  Infection set in and there was danger he would lose his arm.
    I do not know what happened in the end.   Rumour had it that lying in a hospital bed was better than trying
    to dodge moss covered deadfalls and stiletto pointed alder spikes. There I go again, making
    light humour out of dark tragedy.  Sorry Walter if you ever read this.

    Falling is no joke.  If I have made light of Falling please read between the lines or,
    better still, go back to that first picture of my nose.

    FALLING IN LOVE — WOULD BE A BETTER IDEA AND A BETTER STORY


    alan skeoch
    Jan. 2019